


Beyond the Bluefrosts

by TheIttyBitty



Series: Beyond the Bluefrosts [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 00:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIttyBitty/pseuds/TheIttyBitty
Summary: Newly eighteen, Dean Winchester finds himself in an arranged marriage with an angel, half a world away.





	Beyond the Bluefrosts

**Author's Note:**

> Beyond the Bluefrosts was the first fic I ever published. It was back in 2015, and it was _terrible_. So now, several years later, i've decided to re-write the whole thing. It's no masterpiece, but it will no longer be a stain on my "works" list!
> 
>  **ABOUT THIS STORY:**  
>  \- Dean has just turned eighteen  
> \- he's the prince of a small flatland nation that doesn't have much in the way of resources  
> \- Castiel is prince of the Bluefrosts, which aren't large but are rich in minerals, crystals, and other natural resources.  
> -Dean's marriage to Castiel was brokered so that the Bluefrosts could use a part of the flatland as a trade route, and the Bluefrosts are going to send resources to the flatland in exchange. Dean is an incentive  
> \- in this au, angels aren't magical creatures, basically just humans with wings

 

Dean Winchester adjusts his vest for the millionth time today, the morning is unseasonably warm and perspiration builds under his collar. He's been finding it more and more difficult to breathe as the day rolls on, and he's not sure if it's due to the heat or his own apprehension.

“If you'd only let me fix it-” Says his brother, reaching for his hair.

Dean knocks his hand away with a gruff, “Cut it out.”

He's had quite enough of today, what with everyone from his mother to the serving girls feeling obliged to fix his hair and straighten his vest. He's not a child, for heaven's sake.

“I'm just trying to help.” Sam says, hand clutched to his chest, eyes wounded.

Dean sighs and reaches out to pull his brother into an embrace. He's been much too touchy today, he's aware, but he's having a difficult time.

He hears his brother sniff, and pulls back to see tears swimming in his hazel eyes.

“None of that.” Says Dean, giving him a pat on the shoulder, “It's not as if I'm dying. You can come visit.”

Sam nods, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “It's the furthest away you've ever been.” He says, “I don't know what I’ll do without you here.”

“You'll manage.” Dean assures him, “And I’ll write to you.”

“Promise.”

“I promise. Every chance I get.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “Alright.”

“Dean,” Comes a voice from the doorway, long golden hair and a sad smile, “Darling, they're almost ready to leave.”

“Yes, mother. My things are already loaded, I was just... taking one last look, I suppose.”

She comes to him, wrapping him up in her arms as she would a child. He closes his eyes and leans into her, letting himself be held for just a moment. When they pull apart, her face is wet.

“Are you ready, love?”

“I'm ready.” Dean lies.

 

In the castle courtyard, dozens of bronze automobiles are waiting, growling and puffing steam into the air. Usually Dean finds the machines delightful, but today they seem loud and toxic.

The familiar figure of Joanna Harvelle, captain of Dean's guard, stands at the head of the column of automobiles, apparently berating one of the drivers. When she spots Dean, she steps away to greet him.

“My Prince,” She inclines her head, “We're off whenever you're ready.”

Dean takes a look around the courtyard, surprisingly quiet but for the growl of the automobiles. Some of the staff are out to see him off, waving as he catches their eye or standing solemnly as if he's going off to the executioner's block. His mother and brother are just nearby. His father, the king, is nowhere to be seen. They said their goodbyes this morning, gruff and brief, no more is needed between the two of them. Dean is doing his duty for the country, and in this way he makes his father proud, but a king has bigger matters to attend to.

Dean says his last goodbye to his mother and Sam, kissing them both on the cheek and promising to write, and then there's no more stalling to be done.

He makes his way back over to Joanna, “I'm ready,” He tells her, “Let's go.”

He's bundled into an automobile in the middle of the procession with Jo beside him, and after much shouting from the drivers, they're off. They lurch into motion so suddenly that Dean jerks in his seat and has to grip the door to avoid falling out of the vehicle altogether.

He turns in his seat to look out the back window and watch his mother and brother as they grow smaller and smaller, along with his old life.

He forces himself to breathe as they pass into the city, pastes a smile on his face and waves to the cheering crowds. They're here to see their prince off, they don't need to know how heavy his heart is. He catches a bouquet of tossed flowers and offers it to Joanna, who glowers but takes it anyway.

It feels like ages before they're out of the city, out of the noise and the crowds, and he can let himself relax. He leans back in his seat and and closes his eyes, letting the rocking of the automobile on rough cobblestone soothe him. He rubs at his temples, trying to alleviate the ache that settled there days ago and hasn't left since. When he opens his eyes again, he finds Joanna watching him.

“Are you alright?” She asks.

“Fine,” But then, since she's probably his closest friends, “I don't know what I’m going to do on my own. What if... what if the angel is cruel? What if he's too fond of the drink? What if he hates me and then I’m stuck up there in those damned mountains?”

Dean hasn't dared to voice his concerns about the marriage to anyone else. It's an important alliance and he's aware of his duty, these are not questions he's wanted to burden anyone else with. But now it's too late to turn back, and he needs to say something or else burst. He looks at her pleadingly now, and her expression is stern.

“He won't hate you,” She says, “You're comely and charming, no one will treat you badly. The marriage is as important to their people as it is to ours, and you're a _prince_ , you have status.

“You won't be on your own, either, I’ll be there with you and so will the rest of your guard and some of your household. In a week's time we'll be followed by two hundred of the king's subjects. I know it isn't home, but you won't be alone.”

She catches his hand and grasps it tightly, and he lets her, grateful for her friendship as always.

Joanna Beth Harvelle has been his companion for much of his life. Her mother runs the castle kitchens. They met at seven years of age, when Dean had gone to raid the garden and Jo, mistaking him for a common thief, had thrown a chicken at his head. They've been bosom friends ever since.

There was some speculation in their mid-teenage years that there might be some romance between them, but it was not but hearsay. Dean prefers the company of men and Joanna prefers the company of her sword.

She's had a rough time making it to Captain, teased mercilessly for wearing trousers, for taking up an art considered “not feminine”, for being tall and rough. Still, she's made it. She's had to be twice as good as any man just to earn the same respect, a lesser person would have given up long ago. Yet here she sits beside him, strong and steady, her long hair in a braid down her back.

She's giving up everything too, Dean thinks, a pang of guilt rushing up his spine. Although her father is long dead, her mother is still back at the Winchester castle, and she's leaving behind the only home she's ever known, same as him.

He holds her hand a little tighter.

 

After a time, Dean begins to feel slightly less anxious and more bored, and turns his gaze outward. The automobiles are spacious, with large soft seats and plenty of room for him to stretch his legs. They have no doors, so the breeze carries on through the cab to keep them cool. If he leans back, Dean can almost get comfortable enough for a nap. He looks out at the rolling green hills and listens to soft birdsong, it's never this clear in the city.

“How much longer?” He asks Joanna, rearranging his legs so that they don't cramp.

“We'll reach the airships by nightfall.” She tells him, “Then it's a three-week flight to the Bluefrosts.”

Dean nods, but the knot of worry is settling in his stomach again. He _loathes_ flying. He's hated it ever since the age of ten, when his father took him out on a small flying machine. He had nightmares for weeks afterward.

It's not something he likes to admit as an adult, but the fear is still heavily present. He doesn't even like being very far off the ground.

The drive is uneventful, only trees and grass and sparrows to be seen. The sun beats down on the roof of the automobile and Dean and Joanna have to fan themselves to keep cool. It's a horribly boring day, giving Dean entirely too much time to think off all the things that could go wrong with the awaiting airship, or his impending marriage.

Finally, as the sun begins to set and the shadows grow long, they arrive in an enormous field hedged by woods. It's the edge of the Winchester's controlled lands, and as far as they can go on foot (or wheel). It's too dark to make out much, but the silhouettes of two enormous ships are unmistakable, looming over the treetops. Dean tries not to look at them as the company sets up their tents for the night.

Dean's white silk tent is secured with ropes and stakes, and once he's inside he breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, blessedly alone, he may get a moment of peace.

Of course, he calls for a tub and bathwater. Even stronger than his desire to be alone, is his desire to wash the day's sweat and dirt from his skin. Out here, all he gets is a big wooden tub, but once it's filled with steaming water he couldn't care less. He sinks into it, sighing as the water does its best to ease the tension from his muscles. He washes himself quickly, then simply sits for a time, trying his hardest not to think of tomorrow. An attempt is made to get himself off, but he finds he doesn't have the energy to do more than stroke his flaccid cock to half-mast. He lets it rest in the palm of his hand for a time, reaches down to run a finger around the rim of his hole, but nothing more. He wonders if he'll be able to do this sort of thing again, or if it will be discouraged in his new home. Surely it won't be an issue, he thinks, but who can say? He doesn't know what sort of people the angels are.

His sleep is an odd state, dreams full of babbling brooks, chirping birds, and the smell of oak trees. He wakes on his pallet wrapped in soft blankets and has a moment of profound peace before remembering why he's here.

Upon getting up he takes the time to poke his head out of his tent and get a first look at the airships, now visible in the morning light. They're nothing if not intimidating.

Shaped much like sea-faring ships, each with an enormous cloth balloon overhead instead of sails. One is silver, the other a gleaming bronze, and Dean can feel their presence like a living thing. He hopes they're friendly.

He stands there staring up at the ship in just his shirtsleeves for a good five minutes before Joanna comes along and tells him to get dressed before everyone starts thinking he's lost his mind.

A light breakfast is all he can get down, a small amount of bread and fruit that sticks in his throat no matter how much water he swallows afterward. It's peaceful, bathed in the morning light and accompanied by birdsong, but it still feels like a last meal.

After breakfast, they finally board the ships. Dean, his guard, and the accompanying members of his household will be aboard the silver beast, called The Dancing Lady. The cargo rides in the gold ship, Wind Singer.

The captain of The Dancing Lady greets them as they climb up the ramp into the hull, a fiery haired young woman with a pair of leather goggles pushed high on her forehead.

“Your Grace,” She bows to Dean, “Charlie Bradbury, Your Grace. It's an honor to be your pilot.”

Dean inclines his head, “It's an honor to have you as our pilot. You must be the best.”

Charlie flushes, but she stands her ground and salutes, “Yes, sir!”

Dean gives her another nod and moves on, trailed by the rest of his group. He finds the ship spacious and lavish, with armchairs and couches at every turn in luxurious reds and greens. Tapestries hang on the walls, shelves full of books and statuettes and trinkets.

He sits down heavily in an armchair as they lift off, leaving his stomach far below. He can't help but consider the fact that there's nothing under his feet now, nothing but a few inches of silver. Beneath that it's just air, no grass or ground, no rocks, no road. Just space, and howling wind.

He closes his eyes and tells himself over and over that the ship is sound, it's made dozens of voyages, probably. The captain knows what she's doing.

He sits in the chair, telling himself to breath, for far too long. His body doesn't know what to do this far from the ground, and it refuses to be easily placated. He searches for something to occupy his mind, and finds it finally in a book. It's a small book, blue, with a silver star embossed on the front in lieu of a title. He finds it tucked halfway beneath his chair, covered in dust and long forgotten, and immediately falls in love with the softness of its cover. Inside, he finds poems. Page after page of of poetry describing, of all things, flight. Lyrical sonnets describing the feel of the wind beneath one's wings, gushing love for the open skies. In them, he finds a bit of solace. To have his point of fear described so lovingly is a curious sensation, and he can't decide what to make of it. He feels, at least, slightly less afraid than before.

He secrets the book away into his cabin, feeling only mildly guilty about it. There, beside his pillow, it becomes as scripture. Whenever the pull of fear - of the open air or the prospect of a loveless marriage - becomes so strong he can't stand it, he thumbs through the pages of the little blue book until he finds a sonnet that suits him, words that help to sooth his anxious soul.

That's not to say he only stays in his room bemoaning his situation, he wanders. He even finds his way to the bridge, time and time again.

He brings the book once, hoping to inquire about the author, but the captain knows as little about it as he does.

“The Dancing Lady is Prince Castiel's ship,” She explains, “I'm only sailing her.”

Dean tamps down his bitter disappointment, new questions rising to the forefront of his mind.

“What are they like?”  
  
“Your Grace?”

“The mountains, the city.”

“The mountains are vast, beautiful, deadly. If we crashed in the Bluefrosts... that would be the end of us. The city of Elrigh is very modern, also beautiful. Cold though.”

Dean nods, the cold is one thing he's been warned about time and time again. The mountains are always snowy and covered in ice, and so is the city that lies nestled in their heart. It's not the capital, but still one of the largest cities in the angels' country.

He clasps his hands in front of him, hoping to hide the fact that they're trembling with anxiety. He's unused to the cold, being from the warmth of the south, and the idea of _always_ being cold is one that fills him with a terrible dread.

“Cold, you say?”

“But very beautiful.” She repeats.

“But they do have heating systems?”

“Yes, of course.”

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. That's one thing, at least.

“I'm sure you'll enjoy it,” Says Captain Bradbury, “Once you get used to the temperature. It's got the biggest library you ever saw, if you're in for that sort of thing.”

“Hmm. Maybe.” He gives her a nod, “Thank you for your time, Captain.”

She smiles at him, “Any time, Your Grace.”

 

With Dean on this long and arduous journey are a mixture of old faces and new, and he does his best to get to know them all as well as he can. These people are moving with him across field and mountain, and he owes them this much.

His guard, excusing Joanna, is made up of Ed, Andy, Jake, Innias and Cole. It's a small guard by most standards, but Dean prefers it that way. He knows them well, and they know him well in turn. He knows that they're the best, that they'll keep him safe even at risk to their own safety. He trusts them with his life, just as it should be.

Ash is a man he's known from a young age as well, grown from a wild, unruly boy to the royal Beastmaster. With a slow temper but a sharp mind, Ash has made himself an asset to the crown, and Dean is glad to have him along.

Garth is a new face, a small, thin man with a mousy disposition. He finds himself as Dean's personal chef. He's very good, Dean will admit, but there are many days when the prince yearns instead for Ellen's simpler recipes, for the nostalgia of his youth.

Bobby is both a mechanic and a tinkerer, a sour-tempered older man with keen eyes and swift fingers. He's one of King John's oldest friends, and the fact that the king sent him along with Dean is one of the only indications John has given that he's worried. In the end, useful as he may be, Bobby is here to keep an eye out for Dean.

A priestess accompanies them, a devotee to the goddess Hecate. Pamela is sightless, and her night terrors keep Dean awake often, as they're just across the hall from each other. There's something about her that Dean finds unsettling at his core, but she's friendly enough.

Lisa is a musician, with fingers made for strumming her small guitar and a voice like a warbling brook. She beats him soundly at chess on a regular basis and, for the life of him, Dean can't quite figure out how.

There are servants as well, people he spends less time with than others. He gets to know them as too, he wants to know who he has by his side in this endeavor.

 

A steam pump fails, only a few days into their voyage. Dean doesn't know what this means, not really, he doesn't understand the complex mechanisms that keep them afloat, but he knows it's serious. They're at serious risk of crashing into the countryside, and the thought sends Dean spinning into a panic. He's crouched next to the bed in his cabin, head between his knees, trying to breathe. It's not a pretty sight, but the only one who sees is Jo, and he knows she'll never judge him for his fear.

It's Bobby who goes down into the bowels of the ship and figures out the issue that even the engineers can't parse, and fixes it in record timing. Dean has never been so happy in his life to see that puff of steam from the stacks, and aside from some minor burns on Bobby's forearms, everyone makes it out unscathed.

It's a night for celebration, for barrels of whiskey and warm food and good song. It's a night for dancing and laughing and getting to know the person next to you. It's the end of a day that could have ended in tragedy, that nearly did, and it reminds the occupants of The Dancing Lady not to take anything for granted. They all know each other better at the end of the night.

 

It's several weeks before the plains finally begin to roll and break and turn to mountains. The Bluefrosts, great snow-capped monsters, frozen monuments to forgotten gods. At once they are calm and pure as well as untamed and terrible. Dean sees goats leaping from one precipice to another, and he sees great falls of snow, the after-effects of avalanches. All that before they even get into the mountains.

Their beauty is harsh, cold, and unforgiving. As much as he bundles up in firs and blankets, Dean can't escape the chill that seeps into his bones at all times. He takes to wandering down into the belly of the ship and huddling as close to the steam engines as they'll let him.

They travel through the mountains for several long days, and Dean wants to complain but he keeps thinking it could be worse, they could be walking. Anyway, he's dreading their arrival, so the longer they take the better.

Unfortunately, the trip doesn't last forever. Mid-morning on their fifth day in the mountains, Dean hears a shout from above deck. He races up, and looks with everyone else toward the oncoming city.

Elrigh is an enormous city nestled in between two high mountain peaks. It's surrounded by great stone walls, twenty feet high and five feet thick, covered another foot in snow and ice. Buildings with steeply sloped roofs rise above the walls and fall below them. The walls are patrolled by winged guards with spears and swords and arrows.

Dean can see the castle, even from here, looming over top the walls of the city, reaching up to pierce the clouds with its spires. All made of white, it looks like it's a part of the mountain, carved out with a thought. It's the biggest castle he's ever seen, bigger twice and again than his own parents'. Looking at it, he feels incredibly insignificant. What is he to these angels, with their wings and mountains and castles made of ice? A prince, surely, but a poor one. He's nothing like they must be expecting, closer to commoner than royalty.

Dean rubs nervously at the legs of his trousers, incredibly aware of his rumpled state and the fact that there's little he can do about it. He takes a deep breath to quell his nausea. It doesn't help.

“Would you look at that?” Says Jo, coming up beside him, “Never thought I’d see such a thing in all my days.”

“Grand, isn't it?”

“You're white as a ghost.”

“It's just the height.”

“How long have we known each other?”

Dean sighs and turns his head away.

“How long?” She says again.

“As long as I can remember.”

“Then you should know that you can't lie to me.”

“I'm your prince, you know.” He says, a little petulant.

“You've been my closest friend for longer than I knew what a prince was.”

Dean shakes his head, but she's seen through him. “I don't think I’m fit for this.” He says, quiet enough to stay between them, “I'm not... grand.”

Jo worries her bottom lip between her teeth, “You're kind enough. I should think nothing would be as important as that.”

Dean scoffs, “Right. Because royals value _kindness_ above all else.”

“Give it a chance.” Jo tries, “You could be doing him a great disservice, assuming he's not a good man.”

Dean frowns. He doesn't _want_ to give this stranger the benefit of the doubt, he _wants_ to home to his bed and his family, his own small but familiar castle. He wants to be warm, to be with Sam, to feel like he knows what he's doing.

His stomach lurches as they begin to descend toward the city, and he grips the railing with white-knuckled hands.

“Don't throw up.” Says Jo.

“No promises.”

Jo puts a hand on his back and gives it a pat through the thickness of his overcoat.

They touch down outside the city, the icy wind rising high as they land, whipping Dean's hair in his face. As nervous as he is, he doesn't waste any time getting off the boat, even as the others unload. He falls to his knees on the arctic ground, so relieved to feel solid ground beneath him that he might cry. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, he's safe again. For a moment it doesn't matter that he's about to wed a stranger, that he's in an unfamiliar city with unfamiliar faces, he's just glad to be back on the ground.

But then, there's the sound of a trumpet, peeling out through the frozen landscape, and when Dean looks up he sees a procession approaching from the city gates.

He stands quickly, brushing snow from his knees, aware that he's rumpled and dirtier than a prince should be.

Most of the procession is on horseback, headed by an imposing figure clothed all in black. As the procession nears, Dean notices the horses. They're unlike any he's ever seen before, stout and long-haired, manes flopping into their furry faces. They seem well-equipped for the cold. Better by far than the horses on the plains.

The horse at the head of the procession is a tan gelding, and atop him rides a man. He's the prince, Dean knows in an instant. It's not only the delicate silver circlet atop his wild dark hair, but the way he sits in the saddle, how his eyes rove the mountainside. He's swathed in dark furs, so that it's impossible to tell anything else about his figure.

When the procession reaches The Dancing Lady the prince dismounts with familiar ease and crosses the space between himself and Dean. He knows, somehow, that Dean is royalty, in the same way that Dean knew he was the prince.

He reaches out and takes Dean's hand, going to his knees solemnly in front of his betrothed. To Dean's endless surprise, Castiel brings their hands to his lips, to place his cold lips to Dean's knuckles.

“My Prince,” he says, “This is a joyous occasion.”

“For me as well.” Dean says, although the words taste bitter on his tongue. He doesn't know this man.

Prince Castiel rises, keeping Dean's hand in his own, and looks him in the eyes. Castiel's eyes are an icy blue, but they seem warm as they meet Dean's own grass-green.

“I am Prince Castiel, of Elrigh and the Bluefrost Mountains. It's my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Prince Dean.”

Dean takes a breath, steeling himself and pushing a small smile to his lips, “My pleasure as well. I've heard that Elrigh is a very beautiful city.”

“Very beautiful,” He confirms, “No match for your own, of course.”

Dean is momentarily taken aback, “Oh. I- um, thank you, Your Highness.” He stutters, hoping the burn in his cheeks will be mistaken for simple windchill.

“Are you cold?” Castiel asks.

“A bit.” More than a bit, he's freezing. None of Dean's clothes are suited for this kind of weather, and he can't very well wear his comforter outside.

Castiel reaches up and unbuttons his heavy fur cloak from beneath his chin. He sweeps it off of his shoulders and onto Dean's in an expert motion, and suddenly Dean is _warm_. The fur is heavy and thick, smelling of campfires and cologne, and warm already from trapped body heat. To be truly warm after such a long, cold journey has him melting, closing his eyes and wishing he could sink to the ground here and now and just sleep.

“Come,” Castiel says to him, maybe sensing his weariness, “We'll ride ahead. Everyone else can come when the ships are unloaded.”

“My things-”

“Will be brought. You needn't worry.”

Dean nods, and lets himself be hoisted onto a dark gelding alongside Castiel's tan. He buries his hands into the horse's long hair and listens to it snuffle beneath him.

They ride back to the city with several aids trailing behind them, and with Castiel in front of him Dean can finally see his wings. They're great black things, with thick, long feathers, inky black, tucked close to his back. Dean watches them warily, but they don't move. They twitch now and then, but show no other signs of movement.

The gates of the city are massive. Twenty feet high, inches of thick, sturdy wood. It's covered on the outside by a thick layer of ice and snow, impenetrable.

The roads inside are clean and straight, obviously well-cared for. The houses are built of stone, with steep slanted roofs to help the snow fall off.

Citizens gather on the sidewalk to point and wave, and Dean feels as if he's under a microscope. He should be used to this by now, he's a prince after all. It's different with his own people, though. His own subjects, he knows. He's walked among them and seen their faces. But now, he realizes, these are his people too.

He smiles and gives the crowd a wave, and they roar with excitement. Someone tosses a flower and he plucks it out of the air before it can fall.

When he turns to Castiel, he finds the man watching him. He looks pleased.

“Are there no automobiles?” Dean wonders, peering down the side streets as best he can. He hasn't seen a single one. In fact, he hasn't noticed much steam-power at all. Of course, he hasn't been here long.

“We have a few,” Castiel says slowly, “But they don't work well in the constant cold. We've found that horses are a more reliable transportation for us, in general.”

“Oh,” Dean considers this for a moment, “It'll be odd, getting used to not seeing them at all.”

“We keep the ones we have in an outbuilding at the castle, we could- I could show them to you, if you'd like.”

Dean nods, “That would be appreciated.”

They pass close to the market place, Dean can hear more concentrated voices, laughter and chatter. He smells spices and cooked meat, and his stomach grumbles hungrily. The sounds of steel against steel reach his ears, and for a moment he's home, in the smithy. The hollow ache of homesickness in his chest surges upward into his throat, and he has to open his mouth to let the icy air drown it. Tears in public are not becoming, especially not for a prince.

Thankfully, the castle isn't far, and they pass into the courtyard soon enough. The castle is enough to banish his melancholy for a moment, a gorgeous picture of white stone soaring to the heavens, covered in ice and snow. The main doors are big enough that a giant could stride through and not have to bend.

They dismount, and Dean follows Castiel and his aids up the stairs and into the hall. The castle is overwhelming, thick carpets and rich tapestries everywhere. Suits of armor, shields, and paintings. It's so much more than Dean is used to, and it just reminds him of the imbalance of power here. Castiel is rich and influential, with good land and strong connections to other countries. Dean is barely a prince, the child of a plains nation with nothing to offer but himself. What is he, here? A consort in all but name? The thought fills him with dread, and he shivers despite his warm wrappings.

Before long, Castiel is swept away by advisers who need his opinions and Dean is left with an aid. Kevin has a nervous air about him, but he's helpful enough. His wings are a dark brown, the same shade as his hair. Kevin takes him through the halls, pointing out the great hall, the kitchens, libraries, bathrooms, sitting rooms. There's more rooms than Dean will ever remember, and after a little while he gives up trying. They blur together in his mind until he's sure that he'll be lost in a moment.

Finally, mercifully, they come to his chamber. His rooms are more expansive than he'd imagined. He has four rooms total, each the size of his room back home. The sitting room is the first, furnished with dark couches, a low table, shelves full of books, and an already roaring fireplace. The next is a closet, as big as a bedroom and filled half-full with clothes suited for the harsh climate, plenty of room has been left for his own things as well. The third room is a bath, and the most delightful surprise Dean has had in a long time. He expects it to be cold, walking in, but he finds the walls and floor warm to the touch. The bath itself is marble, sunk into the floor, and big enough for ten people to fit comfortably. Racks of towels and soaps and oils line the walls, the smell of the place fills him with a momentary calm. Last of all is the bedroom, boasting a bed that looks like it should be in an art gallery in a big city. It's carved of a dark, rich wood, covered in intricate patterns that look hopelessly complicated. Curtains hang from its posts for added privacy.

As soon as Kevin leaves, Dean lets himself collapse onto the bed, finding it soft as a cloud and smelling of lemons. He lets the tension seep out of his shoulders, out of his limbs, out of his mind. He focuses on keeping his mind blank and free of worry, it won't do him any good now. He can't second-guess his decision to come here now, it's far too late.

He shifts, and pulls from his pocket the small book of poems, running his fingers over the embossed cover. He feels slightly guilty for taking it from the ship, but the peace it brings him outweighs the guilt ultimately. He just hadn't been able to leave it behind.

Back in sitting room he finds that, while he was basking in his melancholy, someone has dropped off his things and left without him even noticing.

He digs through trunks until he finds his sleeping clothes, and takes them with him to the bathroom. He hasn't had a decent bath since he left home, and he feels like he must be covered in a layer of grime and sweat. He turns on the faucets and goes to a nearby shelf, rummaging until he finds a lovely chamomile soap and a bubble mixture that smells of lavender. He pours some of the mixture into the bath and watches as the bubbles grow and grow. When the water is high enough and hot enough he turns the faucets off and slips into the bath.

All his troubles melt away, with the hot water and the pungent soap, he finally lets himself relax for real. Nothing can bother him now, the room is full of steam and everything blurs slightly, like he's looking at the world through a frosted windowpane.

He stays in the bath for an hour at least, thinking of nothing and basking in his own solitary company. When he finally gets out, he hopes to be relaxed enough to fall asleep, but finds himself wired instead. He tries to read, but can't concentrate, attempts to unpack his things but finds himself growing bored.

He considers his options and, finally, bored and fidgety with a growling stomach, he decides to try and find the kitchen. The hour is late, and there should be few people around.

He puts on trousers, but doesn't bother to slip on more than his shirtsleeves. He doesn't expect anyone to see him, and if he spots someone, there's more than enough places to hide in this castle.

Fortunately, he's right about there being no one around. Or, rather, unfortunately, as he's soon hopelessly lost in the endless halls. Everything looks the same, every corner he turns seems too familiar, but not familiar enough for him to get his bearings. Everything is still, eerily so, and so quiet that Dean begins to suspect he might be the last person on earth.

Just when his fear is reaching boiling point, he smells... bread. Bread, the surest way to find the kitchen. So he sets out, renewed, following his nose to what he hopes is salvation. He recognizes that the smell of baking bread means someone is about, and that someone will see him in his shirtsleeves, but he's getting too tired to think about that.

When he finds the kitchen, it's lit. Aether lamps burn cheerily on the walls, casting dancing light all around. There's just one person in the kitchen, standing in front of the huge industrial ovens set into the wall. Dean recognizes him right away by his tousled hair and his onyx wings. He's in his trousers and shirtsleeves as well, which comes as something of a shock to Dean. Such a shock, indeed, that he forgets to be self-conscious.

“Oh,” He says, “Hello.”

Castiel starts, spinning toward the door with the urgency of someone caught doing something they ought not have been.

He sees Dean in the doorway and goes very still. He's still for so long that Dean begins to worry.

“Um.” Castiel says after a lengthy pause, “Hello. Yes, pardon me. I, uh, I didn't expect anyone to be awake-”

“I can leave, if you like?”

“No!” Castiel says quickly, “No, that's not necessary. I- you just startled me, is all.”

“My apologies.” Dean says, not sure what else to do. He'd hoped to find food, but he doesn't want to go prying around the kitchen with the prince here. He takes a step back, “I'll be going then.”

“Wait.” Castiel says, stretching his hand as if to reach across the entire kitchen and stop him leaving, “You must have come for something. Don't let me put you off.”

“I don't want to intrude.”

“You're not.” Castiel insists, “I was just- sometimes I cook when I can't sleep. Bread always makes things better.”

Finally, Dean slips inside the kitchen. He stays several paces from Castiel, but he tries not to shy away either.

“You can't sleep either?”

Castiel gives him a wane smile, “Lots of things changing. More than enough to keep me up at night.”

He seems like a nice enough man. A little odd, maybe, but not unpleasant.

“Me too.” He admits, “That's one thing in common, at least.”

Castiel runs his hand though his hair and leans back onto the wall next to the stove. “I'm sure there's more than one thing.”

“You think so?”

“I'd like to find out.”

Dean looks away, a blush rushing to his cheeks. “You don't know me at all.”

“But I’d like to.” Castiel insists again.

“What if I’m greedy?” Dean wonders, “Or have a terrible temper?”

Castiel looks at him, “I don't think you do. If you do, I suppose that's something we'll deal with. But I could ask you the same question.”

What if Castiel has a temper? What if he's greedy or perverse? These are questions that have plagued Dean for some time, but he can't say that.

“I'll deal with it.” He says, mimicking Castiel's own answer.

Castiel looks at him for a beat, then another. “I _would_ like you to know, upfront, that if my behavior offends you in any way, I’d like for you to tell me.”

Dean's surprise must show on his face, because Castiel continues.

“I'd like for us to be partners.”

“You would?”

“Yes,” Castiel slips his hands into the pockets of his trousers, “That's what I- that's my goal.”

Dean looks at him, and after a moment he decides that Castiel looks honest. He has guileless eyes, big and hopeful.

Dean sighs, “Well, then, that's what I would like as well.”

He's rewarded with a smile, wide and toothy. “A deal is struck.” He says.

“I would hardly call it a deal.”

Castiel reaches out and takes one of Dean's hands that's crossed over his chest, he lifts it to his lips in a much more intimate mirror of the earlier action. Here they are, in the middle of the night, in a darkened kitchen, in their shirtsleeves, and Castiel is kissing his hand. It's affecting, Dean will admit, Castiel lips on his skin send a thrill of interest to his core. Even as he ends the kiss, he holds Dean's hand in his.

“I look forward to getting to know you, Dean.” He says.

“Oh,” Dean breathes, unable to think quite as clearly as he'd like, “Yes, and I- I would like that as well.”

They stand still for a moment before the timer on the oven goes off, and Castiel pulls away.

Unpinned from his heavy stare, Dean takes a deep breath. He needs to get a hold of himself. How could he let a stranger affect him this way? He should leave now, go back to his room and unpack.

“Would you like to try some?” Castiel asks, sliding his loaf of bread onto a cooling rack, “I made it myself.”

Of course, he really is very hungry.

“I'll have some.” He agrees.

Castiel cuts them both generous slices, slathers them in butter, and plates them. He directs Dean to a table in the corner of the kitchen, and when he takes the first bite, his mouth bursts with flavor. Not only is the bread warm and fresh, it's also full of herbs and what seems to be cheese. Never has a bread afforded him this much pleasure.

“This is amazing!” He says around a mouthful, which isn't very princely, but if anything can make him come undone it's good bread.

Castiel is grinning at him from across the table, “Thank you, it's my own recipe.”

“Do you cook a lot?” Dean asks, after he's finished chewing.

“More than I should, but not as much as I’d like. I don't really have a lot of time anymore.”

Dean rips off another piece of the steaming bread and pops it into his mouth. Every bite finds new flavors. “So you come down here to do it at night?”

“It has become something of a habit, yes.”

Castiel is watching him so intently, his fingers, his mouth, his eyes. Dean is hyper-aware of the attention, and it's a foreign feeling. It feels good, though, and maybe that's why he says, “Maybe you could teach me.”

Castiel nods eagerly, “I could, yes. I would consider it an honor.”

“Alright,” Dean says cheekily, “A deal is struck.”

He continues to eat, and Castiel continues to watch him, until he's finished and goes to stand. “I should try sleeping.” He says, “It's getting late.”

“Do you know your way back?”

“No,” Dean admits, “I'm hopelessly lost.”

“I'll walk you back.”

As it happens, Dean's room isn't far from the kitchens as all, he'd just gotten so turned around that it was a much longer walk than it should have been. Now, with Castiel leading the way, it takes mere minutes. He walks Dean all the way to the door, he even waits to see that Dean gets inside alright.

“I'm just down there,” He says before he goes, pointing down the hall, “If you need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you.” Dean says sincerely.

“Sleep well.”

“And you.”

He watches Castiel go, and when he makes it to bed, he sleeps soundly.

 

In the morning, Dean has no small amount of trouble convincing himself to get out of bed. The blankets are warm and soft, his pillow cradling his head perfectly, the light from the window falling in a square on the bed to warm him further. He doesn't want to get up and, frankly, he doesn't think he should have to. Back home his parents would have roused him from bed by now, but here? Unless someone comes to fetch him, he's not getting up for a long while.

Eventually, though, he does get up. It's long after he should have been up and he's beginning to get restless, so he slides warily out of bed, unsure of the temperature of the stone floors. He needn’t have worried, as it turns out, they're warm to the touch, same as the walls. He wonders what sort of heating system can keep a castle of this size warm.

Feeling the need to be productive, Dean finally starts to go through his chests. His clothes go in the closet, his books on the shelves, his trinkets wherever he can stash them. With the inclusion of his things into the environment, he feels a fractional lift in his homesickness. Of course, it's still there. He misses home so badly that he has a permanent heaviness in his stomach, but maybe someday it'll be okay. Maybe someday he'll wake up and this will be home. It's a preposterous thought, but he holds it close to his chest.

He's interrupted from his musings by a knock at the door.

“Just a minute,” He calls, “I'm not decent.”

“It's just me.” Comes Jo's bored sounding voice.

Dean sighs, relieved, and goes to let her in.

“Don't scare me like that.” He chastises, shutting the door firmly behind her.

“It would help if you were dressed before noon.”

“I slept in.”

“That much is obvious.”

“In case you haven’t forgotten, Joanna Beth, I'm a prince and that means you have to be nice to me.”

Jo sputters with laughter, “That didn't work the first time we met, and it doesn't work now, little prince.”

Jo strolls around the room, looking at Dean's books and trinkets. She dressed for the day, with light mail under her vest. Her sword sits her her hip, hair braided nicely down her back.

“If you don't hurry, we'll miss all of breakfast.” She says.

“But it's only ten-thirty!”

Jo levels him a look. “Some of us are up with the sun, you lazy oaf.”

Dean frowns, “Sleep is good for the body.” He insists.

“Just get dressed, I’ll have an easier time listening to you complain if I have a full belly.”

Dean rolls his eyes and goes to his closet, only to find himself completely overwhelmed with his options. “I don't know what to wear.”

Jo appears in the doorway a moment later, going wide-eyed at the vast selection. “Wear something tight,” She says with a grin, “Show the prince your assets.”

Dean glowers at her, “I'm not whoring myself.”

“I should think not. Just giving your husband-to-be a preview.”

“Does your mother know you talk like that?”

“Where do you think I learned it?”

Dean shakes his head, “You're incorrigible.”

He chooses a pair of thick woolen trousers, not overly flattering, but warm enough to keep the chill away. A vest goes over his shirtsleeves, and a simple coat.

“You look very fetching.” Jo tells him.

“And my assets?”

“Not visible, but maybe you can try and win him over with your personality?”

“Not likely.”

“Hmm, well, I suppose it's hopeless then anyway.”

Jo escorts him to the great hall, because she apparently remembers every turn in the castle already, damn her and her memory. He's surprised to find it full even at this hour, packed with every sort of person, knights and castle staff and nobility all dining together.

There are three tables, two running parallel to the walls and one, at the head, perpendicular.

Jo leads him to the perpendicular table at the head of the hall, which currently has only one other occupant, a blond-haired man in a bright purple waistcoat. He looks a bit like a peacock.

“Goodness, me.” The man says, standing as Dean approaches, “Could this be our new prince? A vision, I must say.”

Dean gives a short bow at the waist and then holds out his hand, “Dean, Prince of the Myar flatlands.”

“And soon to be wed to my cousin!” The man exclaims, looking delighted, “It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Balthazar, second cousin to Prince Castiel, Duke of Cicery.”

“And where is that?”

Balthazar waves the question away. “Nowhere important. A tiny hamlet in the mountains where nothing particular ever happens.”

“I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Balthazar.”

“And yours as well! And who is this delightful lady?” He turns to Jo, who glares.

“Joanna, captain of my guard.”

“A knight?”

“Yes.”

Balthazar bows, a dramatic, sweeping gesture. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Ser.”

Jo gives a solemn nod, but Dean knows her well enough to see the spark of pleasure in her eye. Maybe, he thinks, getting away from home will be good for her. The people here haven’t known her from birth, and that gives her an advantage she's never had before. Here, she can be something great.

They sit at the table, with Dean in the middle and Balthazar and Jo on either side of him. Usually, Jo would stand behind him or go and eat with the other knights, but since the high table is empty she takes a chair. Balthazar doesn't bat an eyelash, and Dean is surprised at the angels' informality.

When he looks around, he finds that most people aren't wearing as much as he expected, either. They have on trousers and simple shirts, occasionally with a vest over top. Coats are rare, and Dean begins to feel entirely overdressed.

He doesn't have long to dwell on it, soon there are eggs and meat and some sort of fruit juice, biscuits with gravy and buttery rolls. He doesn't realize how hungry he is until he tucks in, and then he's ravenous.

Balthazar, of course, finds this delightful. “Yes, eat!” He encourages, “Can't have you wasting away now, can we? The nights are cold, you'll need the extra meat!”

Balthazar is over-excitable, over-dramatic, and a bit too loud, but he's friendly. Dean could use a friend.

“Is Cicery nearby?” He wonders.

“Oh, no! I'm only here for the wedding. But you should come visit sometime, meet my husband and our daughter, we'll have a grand time!”

For some reason, the fact that Balthazar has a husband and daughter bolsters his mood. He finds himself smiling pleasantly without even meaning to. “I'd love that.” He says, and he means it.

They've finished eating before Balthazar remembers, “I was supposed to tell you! Castiel requested that you come by his office after you eat, if you're not doing anything else.”

“Alright,” Dean agrees, secretly pleased, “Uh-”

“I know the way,” Says Jo, saving him the trouble of asking.

 

Castiel's office is brightly lit with aether lamps, full of books and one enormous desk that takes up most of one wall. He's working diligently on something when Dean knocks on the frame of the open door.

“Dean!” Castiel greets him, looking up happily.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes, I was actually wondering if you had plans for today.”

“Nothing so far.”

“Would you be interested in coming into the city with me? I was thinking of going to the market.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes, of course.” Castiel furrows his brow, “Why not?”  
  
“Well, it's a big city.” Dean explains, “And you're the prince...”

Castiel smiles, “I have nothing to fear from my people.” He says, fondly, “They are welcome here and I am welcome among them. In fact, I like to go out at least once a week. It's good to see firsthand how things are going, don't you think? I never want there to problems in my city that I ignore.”

“That's... very noble.”

“That's my duty. They're my people. They've come to live under my rule and, in turn, I take care of them.”

“Not everyone thinks like that.”

“Not everyone is suited for power.”

“Very true.” Dean thinks, “I'll go into the city with you, yes.”

“Wonderful. Let me just finish up, maybe ten minutes? You should wear something warm, it's starting to snow.”

“Should I meet you back here.”

“I'll come and get you.”

 

Dean wears a cloak of thick silver fur over top his clothes, it's tremendously warm and keeps out the biting cold. Castiel's is black, and of the same make by the look of it. They're a regal pair if ever Dean saw one, walking side by side through the snowy streets. Dean's black boots are soft and thick, suitable for entertaining or for going walking.

Large white snowflakes fall slowly from the sky, coating the road ahead and alighting on Castiel's flyaway hair. Dean resists the urge to reach up and brush it out, the action is much too familiar, but only barely.

Some paces behind them, Jo walks with the captain of Castiel's guard, Hannah. Jo is delighted to find another female captain, and they've had much to talk about on the walk.

When they reach the market, Castiel greets the stall owners by name, he introduces them to Dean and Jo, he asks about their lives and inquires after their families. How strange is it that Dean finds is actions absolutely mesmerizing, that he could listen to Castiel talk to this stranger about their children for hours? He _cares_ , Dean realizes, Castiel really cares about the people. He cares about his city and the state it's in, and it's absolutely enchanting. Maybe it's because it lays so many of his own fears to rest, fears that he's kept quiet on, but has just the same. Maybe it's because he's finding Castiel to be kind, and that's so much more than he could have hoped for.

When he's finished talking, Castiel leads Dean to a fruit stall and asks, “What's your favorite kind?”  
                 
“I like blueberries.” Dean admits.

Castiel turns to the shopkeeper and says, “A pound, please.”

A pound of blueberries go into a basket for them, and Castiel plucks one from inside to hold out to Dean, “For you.”

Dean could take with his fingers, but he's feeling cheeky so instead he leans forward and takes the fruit from Castiel's fingers with his mouth. His lips close over Castiel's fingers, his tongue sliding forward to slip the berry away. His tongue brushes Castiel's fingers just a little, not enough for him to feel _really embarrassed._ But he does feel flustered, heat rises in his cheeks as he thinks about what he's just done, to a prince, in a crowded area. When he glances around, no one else is paying them any attention.

Castiel's eyes are on his mouth though, and they don't leave it for several long seconds. He looks into Dean's eyes, and the young prince glances quickly away, unable to believe himself.

They don't speak of it, after several awkward moments Castiel clears his throat and suggests that they move on, an idea that Dean grabs like a life preserver.

They visit cloth booths, knife booths, booths selling spiced meat and booths selling candy. Castiel admits that chocolate covered almonds are a weakness of his, and buys a sack of them. For Dean, he buys a sack of toffees and a mug of hot chocolate. They sit, for a time, outside a small sandwich shop so that Dean can finish his drink. Castiel is pressed close to his side, leaning over to whisper into Dean's ear tidbits about the shopkeepers or the architecture. His breath tickles Dean's neck, and he has to concentrate on keeping his breathing steady all the while.

When he's finished with his drink and stowed his toffee in his cloak, they get to their feet and Castiel holds out his hand. “Come,” He says, “We're off to the pond.”

“The pond?” Dean inquires, “It must be frozen solid.”

Castiel laughs, “Indeed it is!”

The pond is on the outskirts of the city, ringed by a low stone wall with benches all around. At one end of the pond a small old woman has set up shop, and Dean can't figure out what she's selling until Castiel goes over to her and comes back with bladed shoes.

“Skates!” Castiel explains.

“What?”

“We use them to skate on the ice.” Castiel hands Dean a pair and begins to demonstrate the process of putting them on, “Do they not have ice skating where you're from?”

Dean shakes his head slowly, trying to follow Castiel's directions, “We don't have _ice_. We have winters, but they don't get all that cold. It rarely snows.”

Castiel makes a noise of disbelief and leans over to help Dean with his laces.

When he finally stands, Dean feels about as stable as a newborn foal.

“Careful,” Castiel tells him, “We can walk if we're careful, take my arm.”

It's no easy task to get from the bench to the ice, but what really ends up being a problem is the ice itself. As soon as they step onto it, Dean's feet do their best to fly out from under him. He shrieks and grabs tight to Castiel's arm, but the thing that stops him from falling is Castiel himself, spinning round to catch Dean by the waist and hold him close.

“You're trying to kill me!” Dean accuses.

Thankfully, Castiel doesn't take the accusation seriously, “No, no!” He laughs, “On my honor. Once you get the hang of it, it's such fun.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Come now, you're cutting off the circulation in my arm.”

Dean relaxes his grip slightly, but doesn't let go, he doesn't trust the ice one bit.

There are other people on the ice, young and old, and they do look like they're having fun, but Dean can't imagine feeling safe on such a slippery surface.

“Here,” Says Castiel, “You can hold on to me. We'll go very slowly, I won't let you fall.”

Dean wants to protest, but it all sounds very reasonable. In any case, there are toddlers doing it, he should be able to.

He takes a deep breath and relaxes his hold, changing his position so that they're side-by-side. Castiel starts to move, and Dean has a moment of panic before he realizes that, with Castiel to hold on to, he's fairly stable. They go around and around the pond until Dean is feeling brave enough to try it himself, and soon they're skating together.

“You've got it!” Castiel praises him, “You're a very fast learner.”

“It's not too hard.”

 

That night finds Dean stealing away to the kitchens again, breathing in the smell of bread and basking in the warm light. Castiel doesn't seem to mind the company, he listens raptly to everything Dean has to say.

“I've been wondering,” Dean says, “Can your wings- I mean- can you fly?”

“I can.” Castiel tells him.

“It's just, they're so _still_. I suppose I expected them to be more animated.”

Castiel looks at him for a moment, then looks away. “Well... I suppose I’ve been hiding them more than I ought to.”

“Hiding them?”

“I thought they might bother you.”

“Oh, no!” Dean assures him, “They're fascinating, and very lovely.”

“Lovely?” Castiel raises his eyebrows, “Not ruggishly handsome?”

“Hmm, perhaps both.”

“Ah, well I suppose that's alright then.”

“Does it hurt? To keep them up against your back like that?”

“A little.” Castiel admits, “They're more prone to cramping this way.”

“Well don't feel obligated to do it on my account.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Really, Dean would like to touch them. They look soft, the feathers are long and clean, but that's not a line he's willing to cross without some sort of invitation, and it doesn't seem like he's going to get one.

In any case, the subject changes, and Dean finds himself rambling about homesickness, even though he knows he shouldn't. He talks about his mother and his brother, flying kites and going swimming, about the green plains that were his home for so long.

“It's so white here.” He says, “Everything is just covered in snow, there's no _color_. I don't know when I’ll see a green plant again. It's just odd.”

Castiel has been watching him silently for some time, but now he moves forward and takes Dean's hand. “Come on,” He insists, giving it a tug, “I have something to show you.”

They walk silently through the dark halls, careful to dodge anyone who might appear. Dean feels like a child sneaking out of bed, like this is a grand adventure. He finds himself laughing for no reason, unable to keep quiet.

Castiel, bemusedly exasperated, keeps shushing him, which only makes him laugh harder. They go all the way to the far back end of the castle, to a door that Dean has never been to before. Castiel opens it for him, and Dean steps inside.

It's a dome, an enormous glass dome looking out over the mountainside and up at the dark, starry sky. What really has Dean's attention, though, are the plants. He's stepped into a greenhouse, full to the rafters with fruit trees and vegetables and bushes. Raised beds of stone hold the plants in large squares, making it easy enough for Dean to walk among them.

Glowing lamps hang from the ceiling, from trees, and from posts in the ground. Dean finds himself in awe, overwhelmed by the colors, by the smell of green, by the feel of so many living plants beneath his fingertips.

“Dean,” Castiel says, his fingertips brushing the small of Dean's back, “Are you alright?”

“Why... why did you show me this?”

There's a moment of quiet between them, in which Dean realizes he can hear the gentle chirp of grasshoppers.

“I haven’t always lived here.” Castiel says finally, “I grew up in our capital city. It's ten times, maybe twenty, bigger than this. Always bustling, always busy. I grew up with twelve siblings.”

“Twelve?” Dean breathes, in awe.

Castiel nods, “Our father never wanted us to fight amongst ourselves, so when he became ill he split the land into twelve pieces and gave one to each of us to rule. I understand what he was trying to do, but I... I would have been happier staying in the city, fourth in line for the throne. It was my home.

When I first came here, I hated it. I hated it so much, every day. It was so much different than what I was used to, and it was so far away from my family. My first years here were the loneliest years of my life.”

Dean feels Castiel's pain like a knife in his guy, sharp and insistent. To hear that Castiel has felt the same things that Dean feels, it somehow makes things easier.

“What did you do?”

“First, I built this.” He gestures around, “My home was very green, and this was something to remind me. Then, I built the library in the city.”

“The library?”

“We passed it today, but I’ll have to show you around it one day. It's an exact replica of one that was built in our capital city, I used to go there much as a boy.”

“Did it help?”

“Yes, I think it did. It helped me to see something familiar, to not feel like I was in such strange waters. I thought this might help ease your pain, even a fraction.”

“Thank you,” Dean says, turning to him, “Thank you.”

“Anything.” Castiel tells him.

Maybe it's because he's tired, but Dean feels such a surge of gratitude that he can't contain. He reaches out, before he can think about it, and cups Castiel's jaw. He leans forward, and kisses him firmly on the mouth.

It's entirely inappropriate, he's aware. They're alone, they're not wed, it's night. Surely Castiel will push him away and chastise him for his impulsiveness.

Instead, Castiel kisses back, hungrier than Dean would have thought. One hands slides up into Dean's hair and the other grasps his hip.

It's a lot, all at one, and at the same time it's not enough. He wants more, so badly, but he's overwhelmed and, after a moment, he pulls back. He's panting, trying to catch his breath, a hand over his mouth. Castiel says nothing, he's still standing so close, looking at Dean like he wants to eat him alive.

“Sorry,” Dean says, once he trusts himself to speak, “I don't- I don't know what came over me.”

Castiel shakes his head, reaching out to touch Dean's hip with the tips of his fingers, “You did nothing wrong.”

“That was entirely inappropriate.”

“I can't say I minded.”

Dean frowns at him, “I should be going.”

“Stay.”

He's tempted, there's no hiding that, but he's acted foolishly enough for one night. “Goodnight, Castiel.”

“Let me walk you back.”

Dean sighs, because he doesn't know the way back, it's true. “Alright.”

But it's not alright, because Dean can't stop looking at Castiel as they walk, and he keeps catching Castiel looking at him. There's something building between them, growing until it's almost a physical weight by the time they get back to Dean's room.

“Goodnight.” Dean says at the door, trying to sound firm.

“Wait. What about a kiss goodnight? That wouldn't be inappropriate, would it? We'll be wed in a few days, what harm is a kiss goodnight?”

Dean has no good answer, he says, “Okay.”

A kiss goodnight, it's not. Not unless it's meant to be a very _long_ night. Castiel is pressed against him from collar to toe, his tongue in Dean's mouth, his teeth on Dean's lip. He's pressing Dean back into the wall, mouthing at his throat, and Dean can't help but spread his legs and let Castiel fit himself there. Castiel is spurred on by Dean's gasps, Dean's hands in his hair, he skates his teeth over the tendons of Dean's neck.

“Oh,” Dean breathes as Castiel's thigh presses against his growing erection, “Oh, _hell_.”

“Let me do something for you.” Castiel whispers, hot and urgent in his ear.

“What?”

Castiel kisses up his neck, his jaw, his mouth. He's gentle now, soft kisses for tender lips. “May I taste you?”

“Taste me?” Dean echoes, unsure about what he means.

“Can I show you?”

There's a very small part of Dean that insists he should say no, but it's such a small, small part of him, and he doesn't want to say no.

“Okay.” He says.

“Can we use your room?”

“Of course.”

Dean lets himself be led into his room and pushed against the door, and kissed again and again. He loves it, he knows he should stop but he can't, he doesn't want to. He's never done something like this before and wants to feel everything he can.

Castiel's hands are undoing his trousers, pushing them down his thighs.

“Still okay?” Castiel whispers into his ear.

“Yes.” Dean says. Yes, yes, yes.

Castiel goes to his knees, right there, so close, and he takes Dean's erection into his hand. It's great, but it's nothing compared to Castiel's mouth closing around it, sucking. Lips up and down his shaft, a tongue laving thoughtfully at his balls, and he's done for. He comes, staining his pants and Castiel's shirt. Boneless, he falls to the floor, where Castiel kisses him again.

They kiss much slower now, no longer urgent, mapping each other's mouths with their tongues.

“Do you want me to- I could try-”

“Ah,” Says Castiel, “Maybe next time.” He looks down and Dean follows his gaze to where a wet stain is showing on the crotch of his pants.

“Help me get to bed?” Dean asks.

“Anything.” Says Castiel.

 

The next morning Dean is awakened rudely by someone knocking at the door. He looks at the clock, it's only nine in the morning. He groans and buries his head in his pillow, before leaping out of bed and shouting, “Just a moment!” While he scrambles to find clean clothes. While the ones he was wearing last night are right there on the floor, they have some stains that he'd rather not explain.

When he finally gets to the door, he finds Jo waiting with a bored look on her face, accompanied by two female angels.

“Your Grace,” Jo says, affecting a more formal air in front of their onlookers, “This is Sewing Mistress Hael and Manager of Operations, Tessa.”

“Good morning.” Dean says as pleasantly as he can, “Can I inquire as to the nature of this visit?”

“The wedding, Your Grace,” Tessa explains, “Hael is here to get your measurements and I'm here to walk you through your wedding ceremony.”

Dean lets them in, and they begin the whole process in the sitting room. Hael prods and pulls and measures, making notes in a small notebook and saying, “Oh!” and “Hmm.” quite a lot. Tessa begins telling Dean, in excruciating detail, exactly what the wedding will entail. Dean is not at all sure that he needs to hear all of this, much of it is simple common sense. Besides that, the weddings here seem to be much the same as weddings in Dean's homeland, save for a few trivial differences. There's some sort of ceremonial ribbon trying, something about a bowl of snow, Tessa is talking very fast and Dean is having troubling retaining the information with Hael's hand so close to his unmentionables. He's not overly worried about it, he'll ask Castiel if he really wants to know.

This goes on for a good forty-five minutes, and when they've finally gone Dean collapses in exhaustion on the couch. Never mind that he just woke up, he's already ready for a nap. He settles for a bath instead, and if he strokes himself to the memory of last night, no one has to know.

 

Dean doesn't see Castiel at all that day, nor the night, and he's beginning to worry. He worries he overstepped his bounds, he worries Castiel didn't enjoy what they did together and is reconsidering everything.

He worries until he's made himself sick to his stomach and he has to send Jo for lemon water.

As it is, he sees Castiel the next morning at breakfast, an anomaly in itself.

“Good morning, Dean!” Castiel greets him brightly, “You're looking well!”  
  
“And you.” Dean says automatically, kicking himself mentally for worrying about something that's obviously not happening. He tucks quickly into his food to hide his embarrassment.

“Do you feel up to a trip to town today?” Castiel wonders, “I was considering showing you the library.”

“I would like that.” Dean says, “When will we go?”

“As soon as we're done eating?”

“Oh! Absolutely.”

 

The library takes up an entire block. It's a massive structure of white stone, three stories high, as fortified as the castle itself. People of all ages and walks of life bustle through the doors, creating an atmosphere that's busy, but welcoming. The shelves are huge mahogany monsters, holding hundreds of pounds of books with ease. Looking at them all, Dean wonders if there might be more books in this building than in his entire home country. The further he goes inside, the more in awe he becomes. Every kind of book he can imagine is displayed.

“Can I borrow one?”

“You can borrow as many as you want.” Castiel tells him conspiratorially.

Dean leaves with a stack of books too heavy for him to carry on his own, feeling pleased with himself and universe.

 

Castiel is teaching him how to make bread. It's night, and all they seem to have really made is a mess. Well, they made dough, and it's rising, but there's flour everywhere. Dean is considering beginning to clean it before Castiel picks up a handful and dumps it on his head.

Dean gasps, looking out at Castiel from under floury eyelashes. “I cannot _believe_ you!”

Castiel has a glimmer in his eyes, he bites his bottom lip. “You look dashing.”

Dean grabs a handful of flour and flings it at him, coating Castiel as well as the entire floor. From there, it devolves rather quickly to flour down the backs of trousers until, predictably, it ends with Dean pressing Castiel up against a counter and kissing him senseless. Their kisses taste like flour, but Dean doesn't really mind that much.

He draws the line tonight, though, at anything else. Any kind of sex acts in a kitchen are, in his opinion, completely unsanitary as well as in poor taste. He and Castiel clean up the flour before they bake the bread, with onions and thyme, and kiss more while they wait for it to cook.

Castiel's fingers trace lightly over Dean's hard erection through his pants, he nips and Dean's ear and kisses his nose.

The bread doesn't burn, although it's a close call, and it tastes amazing. Dean eats so much that it's all he can do to make it to his room before he falls asleep.

 

It snows the day of the wedding, so much that there are great hills of the fluffy white nonsense that must be shoveled before anything else can be done at all. It's freezing, as always, but everyone seems to be in a grand mood.

Dean is a mess, a bundle of nerves and homesickness and anxiety. Aids come to help him dress and prepare, but he's so high strung that he just ends up snapping at them. His stomach is rolling and every time he catches sight of himself in the mirror he feels like throwing up.

Finally, Jo comes to him. She makes him sit down on the edge of the couch and takes his face into her hands.

“Dean,” She says, “What are you afraid of?”

“I don't know.”

“Listen to me; if you want to leave, we'll leave.”

Dean hears one of the aids make an offended sound, but he ignores them.

“I... I don't think I do.”

“Whatever you decide, I’m behind you one hundred percent.”

Dean closes his eyes, something inside of him eases just a little. “Thanks, Jo.”

“What do you think?”

Dean takes a breath. “I'll stay. I'm just nervous, is all.”

“I'm on your side.” Jo reminds him.

“I know.”

When he's calm enough, the aids help him dress. The wedding outfit consists of loose satin trousers in a stormy gray, an undershirt, a pair of soft slippers, and a flowing silver robe that trails behind him on the ground and swallows his hands whole. A simple bronze circlet sits atop his hair.

It's not as bad as he expected, not as gaudy or heavy, and he forces himself to breathe again. Thankfully, the cathedral where the wedding is being held is connected to the castle via a secret passageway, so Dean doesn't have go out in the snow and dirty up his robe. When he gets to the cathedral and finds the room he's to wait in until the ceremony, he notices one very important thing missing.

“Where's the prince?”

“He's in a room on the other side of the hall.” Tessa assures him, “You'll enter at the same time and meet each other at the alter. Do you remember what to do or do you need me to run through it again?”

“I remember.”

She pulls a watch out of her pocket and studies the hands with a furrowed brow. “Alright, we've got a few minutes until the doors open, and then about ten until the service starts. I'm going to talk to Prince Castiel, Jo knows the signal, she'll tell you when to walk.” With that, she brushes out the door without a glance back.

Dean, suddenly exhausted from his nerves, slumps into a nearby seat. “Do they even need me?”

“Oh, hush.” Jo says, not unkindly, “It's a big day for everyone. Their country gets two kings today.”

“It just feels like it's all happening so fast.”

“It is, but you'll be alright.”

Dean breathes, and he knows she's right, he'll be okay. He'll learn to like this place, maybe love it. He'll get to know the people, and he likes Castiel. He came here sure that he'd loathe the man, but he turned out to be very sweet. He can see himself loving Castiel sometime soon, maybe sooner than he should.

They listen as the doors open and the people file in, as they take their seats and finally, as the organ music starts to play.

“That's your cue!” Jo hurries him along.

She opens the door to the cathedral for him, and he steps through.

The cathedral is a sight that sends his heart racing, hundreds of people packed into the pews decorated with garlands of flowers. The ceiling raises so high that Dean can see birds in the rafters, _everything_ is covered in flowers.

He starts forward along a path marked for him with lit candles, hoping to heaven he doesn't set his robe aflame on accident. He can hear the crowd murmuring, but he doesn't look at them. He looks ahead, at the pulpit, where a tall man stands waiting to receive the princes. At the other side of the cathedral, Dean spies Castiel coming out of another door and starting down his own candle-laden path. It's slow going, Dean watching his every move, determined not to trip or to set anything afire, but eventually he gets to the raised platform. Three steps up, and he's on the platform, in front of the pulpit, in front of everyone. He's so nervous now, standing in front of these hundreds of people, he feels like he might be sick. He can't be sick, he reminds himself. Not now. Not now. Later, he can be sick as much as he needs to, but not now.

There's Castiel now, stepping up onto the dais with him, just a few moments behind. He looks kingly, Dean thinks. His robe mirrors Dean's, but it's bronze instead of silver, while the plain circlet on his head is silver. They're dressed opposite, Dean realizes, and he can imagine the picture they make together. Castiel is certainly regal enough.

“We are gathered here, today,” Says the officiant, “To bring together these two men in the eyes of the country...” He goes on, but Dean can't concentrate. His nerves are getting the better of him again, and he can feel himself starting to shake.

Then, a hand in his, Castiel has moved closer and is holding his hand. It's not part of the ceremony, but he's noticed that Dean is panicking. He rubs his thumb soothingly along the back of Dean's hand.

“Are you alright?” He whispers. The crowd is much too far away to hear, and the officiant is droning on as if nothing in the world could stop him.

“All these people,” Dean whispers back, “They just make me nervous.”

“It'll be over soon.” Castiel promises.

He's right, of course. The ceremony isn't long. The officiant reads the vows and exchanges their simple circlets for more ornate ones. Castiel's is made of twisting silver strands inter-laid with blue azurite that matches his eyes. Dean's is a bronze circle crafted into leaves and buds of opal, one blooming flower sits in the center. There's a point at which they have to have their wrists tied together, Castiel's right and Dean's left, and then it's finished. Castiel leans forward and brushes a chaste kiss over Dean's lips, and the crowd roars its happiness. They stand together on the dais for several long moments, smiling and waving at the crowd, and then finally, blessedly, they leave through the door Dean came through.

As soon as they're through, Castiel pulls Dean into his arms. “You did great.”

Dean can't stop himself from melting, from leaning into Castiel and resting his head on the man's shoulder. His husband's shoulder.

In the corner of the room, a throat is cleared. “You have visitors.” Says Jo.

Dean looks up, and is beyond surprised to find his mother and brother standing there.

“Mother,” He breathes.

“Oh, darling.” She sweeps toward him, gathering him up in her arms as if he's he child. He clings to her, gathering strength from her embrace, “You look so dashing.”

“I didn't know you were coming,” He says, holding his hand out for his brother as well, and Sam comes to join the hug eagerly.

“We wanted it to be a surprise.” Mary says, kissing his brow, “And now who's this gentleman?”

She knows exactly who Castiel is, but she likes to tease.

“Prince Castiel.” Castiel blinks, then corrects himself, “ _King_ Castiel, I suppose. You're Queen Mary Winchester.” He bows low in front of Dean's mother, every bit as charming as a king should be, “You're even more beautiful than I imagined.”

“Goodness,” Mary fans her face with a delicate hand, “Listen to him. Charming, isn't he?”

Dean doesn't answer, but instead introduces Castiel to Sam, who is eager to visit the city library. Dean watches them chat, and suddenly he doesn't feel so bad. He doesn't feel so anxious, or so homesick. He knows that Mary and Sam will have to leave eventually, but he feels the importance of reconciling these two parts of his life with one another.

After a time they move to the great hall, which has been fitted with more tables and filled with more barrels of ale than Dean would think a country could drink. There's meat, bread, and cakes. Fruits and rolls and cooked vegetables. Dean and Castiel sit side-by-side at the head of the hall, with Balthazar and Mary and Sam with them, and they celebrate.

 

The end of the night sees them in Castiel's room, reclining on the couch together. Dean is leaning heavily on Castiel, having had enough mead to make him friendly, but not quite enough to get him drunk.

“You did wonderful today.” Castiel tells him, running a hand through Dean's hair.

Dean hums and presses his face further into Castiel's shoulder, breathing in the smell of him. “It was a long day.”

“Would you like to go to bed?”

Dean pulls himself away from Castiel's side long enough to stand and wave the long sleeves of his robe toward the bedroom. “Take me to bed.” He says.

Castiel doesn't do things halfway, so perhaps Dean shouldn't be so surprised when Castiel picks him up bridal style and carries him into the bedroom. He sets Dean down gently on the bed, and the young king leans back on his elbows to look at his new husband.

“Is this where you ravish me?”

“If you'd like.” Castiel says, amused.

“And if I don't?”

Castiel's face goes serious. “Then I won't.” He promises, “Whatever you'd like.”

Castiel needn't worry, a familiar heat is curling in his belly as Dean looks up at him, a dashing king if Dean ever saw one.

He quirks his finger at Castiel, _come here_.

Castiel comes to lean over him, his circlet falling forward on his head until it obscures his view.

“Damned thing.” He mutters, taking it off and setting it on an end table. Dean takes his off and hands it to Castiel to put with the other, and then the man is back. He leans over Dean to kiss him gently on the mouth. It's not like it was in the greenhouse, or in the hall, it's something completely new.

Dean opens to it, letting Castiel explore his mouth thoroughly, as his hands roam Castiel's body. He feels along his husband's chest, his pectorals, his abdomen. He slips his fingers between them to work the small buttons of Castiel's robe, but has no luck at all.

“Can we take this off?” He asks, giving Castiel's sleeve a tug.

Castiel stands, begins plucking his buttons just as Dean does his, until they're both in shirts and trousers. It's still too much, and Dean rises from the bed to pull Castiel's shirt over the man's head, and then his own as well. Modesty be damned, he slips off his trousers as well, letting them pool at his feet. Castiel stares.

“You're magnificent.” He says finally, reaching for Dean.

“Nothing special.” Dean mutters as Castiel kisses the column of his neck.

“Stupendous.”

Dean sighs, but he doesn't protest as Castiel leads him back to the bed, as they climb onto it and Castiel rolls on top of him again. He looks up, and Castiel's wings are spread, wide and puffed up as big as they go. A spike of pleasure rushes through him as Castiel finds a particularly sensitive place on his neck, and he reaches up to push his fingers through those glossy feathers.

The result is instant, Castiel tenses, but the whine he lets out is anything but pained. He moves down Dean's chest with renewed vigor, locking his lips around one pert nipple. Dean presses his fingers further, feeling the muscle beneath the feathers gently. At every flex of Dean's fingers, Castiel rolls his hips, and his mouth is becoming more and more urgent. He kisses down Dean's stomach, to his thigh. He teases there, sucking and biting just close though to Dean's erection that it has him squirming and gasping.

Never in his life has Dean been this vulnerable, let himself be this vulnerable. It's baffling, especially as short a time as he's known the man currently suckling his scrotum. He's not afraid. He finds that, beyond reason, he trusts Castiel. Why? He's not sure exactly. A gut feeling, perhaps. In any case, he's finding this experience to be highly enjoyable.

Castiel licks at the head of Dean's cock, then very quickly swallows him whole. Dean keens, he can't help it. His mouth and his brain are no longer wired together, it seems.

After a few moments, Castiel reaches over and grabs a bottle of something from the nightstand. The lid is off, and Castiel slicks up a finger with the stuff before pressing it gently to Dean's hole.

It's unpleasant, Dean finds, being opened this way. The feeling of intrusion is difficult to get past, to say the least. Castiel is still sucking him though, and he's patient, and after a minute or two it's not so bad. He goes on this way with two fingers, then three, and finally he's sliding off of Dean's cock and lifting himself up above Dean, kissing him deeply on the mouth.

He says, “May I enter you?”

Dean nods, he's ready, or at least he thinks he is. Again, the initial intrusion is extremely unpleasant, Castiel's cock is not like a finger, or even three. It's big and thick and entirely too much, but Dean breathes deep and closes his eyes.

Castiel doesn't move. “Is it too much?”

Dean takes a gasping breath and clenches his hands in Castiel's sheets. “A moment. Just give me a moment.”

Castiel does, he waits until Dean's body has accommodated to his girth before moving forward, and the process begins anew. It takes quite some time, and when Castiel is finally fully seated, Dean's erection has flagged significantly.

Castiel reaches between them and, instead of moving, begins to coax Dean's cock back to life. He leans up to kiss Dean, playing with the softness between his legs all the while, until it's no longer soft.

Only then does Castiel begin to move, slowly, without agenda. He rocks gently into Dean, which is a comfort. Dean reaches up then, and begins to run his hands through Castiel's feathers again, which makes the king's hips stutter.

“Do you like that?” Dean wonders.

Castiel closes his eyes and lowers his head to Dean's shoulder. He nods. “It's... very good.”

So Dean continues, and Castiel makes love to him slowly, reaching in between them to get a hand on Dean's cock again.

When he comes, Castiel gasps through his release, and then works Dean slowly until he comes as well. They're sweaty, and filthy, but for a moment Dean feels as though the world is a peace.

As they fall asleep side-by-side, Dean considers the near future. Tomorrow, he'll have breakfast with Castiel and Mary and Sam. Maybe he'll take Sam to the library, Mary to the greenhouse. They'll like Castiel, he's sure, and Castiel will like them as well. Maybe he'll move his things into this room, although not right away. Maybe Castiel will teach him how to bake more.

Tomorrow is full of possibility.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If it's not obvious, Castiel is entirely infatuated with Dean. He will be wonderful, devoted husband and Dean will quickly fall in love with him. 
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> [Dean's crown](http://goldenheartx.tumblr.com/post/159536051003)
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> [Castiel's crown](http://www.medievalbridalfashions.com/catalog/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=1&products_id=31)
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> [catch me on tumblr](https://deanlightful.tumblr.com/)


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